


Bullet

by kidcarma



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa Another Episode: Ultra Despair Girls
Genre: Blood and Injury, Bullet wound, Character Study, Cross-Posted on Tumblr, Despair Era (Dangan Ronpa), Gen, Graphic Description, Self Surgery, Surgery, discussions of fate
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 08:14:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27650072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kidcarma/pseuds/kidcarma
Summary: Kamukura gets shot.This wasn't supposed to happen.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 30





	Bullet

**Author's Note:**

> short little piece about kamukura dealing with a bullet wound- be mindful if things like descriptions of blood/injury/surgery make you uncomfortable
> 
> also inspired by that one scene in House M.D.

Something like this shouldn’t have happened.

For all intents and purposes, the possibility was so slim, it was negligible and Kamukura had treated it as such- discarded it and yet.

And yet.

He sucks in a sharp breath, the high of adrenaline and borderline shock allowing him to limp slightly into the bathroom and start rifling through the medicine cabinets in record time. 

This isn’t the ideal place to do this. In a dingy, half lit bathroom, with nobody to assist. But Komaeda is away today, and they haven’t been in contact with the others for months now.

It’s fine.

He lays everything out on the countertop that he calculates will be useful, hands moving to his pants then to briskly undo them, kicks his shoes off and shucks his trousers off to the side- they pile up in the corner he’s sent them off to wrinkle in, but they’re in a far worse state considering the bullet hole and the blood crusting over and down the pant leg as a result. 

Sitting in the bathtub, Kamukura grits his teeth around a washcloth, jaw tense, and pushes his sleeves up his arms as far as they’ll go without him undoing the buttons on the cuffs because he’s too focused now on the sight in front of him. Tells himself that _this wasn’t supposed to happen,_ but really, it’s nobody’s fault but his own that he lives to test the paths that fate has laid out. (And also the person who pulled the trigger.) Completely orderly when chasing chaos and pain and the rush of it all is better than feeling nothing, but that doesn’t mean he’s just going to leave the bullet in his leg. 

He’s equipped to handle pain. Was made for it, even. Bones broken only to be made stronger, Kamukura’s threshold for agony is high- enough to let him flee, to treat his own injuries in an instance like this, whereas someone else would have gone into shock and collapsed where they stood in the heat of it all. Still, the sensation isn’t pleasant, as he squints his eyes in the shoddy light and takes the scalpel to his leg, cleaning slicing through the layers of skin and sinew to expose the bullet further for easier extraction. 

He doesn’t. He doesn’t have forceps, though.

That would make things too easy, of course, with his luck running dry enough to let him get shot in the first place, it’s no surprise that it’s making him go without a few dire wants. Perhaps not needs. 

The rag between his teeth, starting to soak in drool as he bites down, finding it too difficult to swallow around the occasional grunt that slips out of his throat only to be muffled by the barrier in his mouth.

They’re far away sounds, too irrelevant to focus on. 

Not when he’s peeling back layers of his own flesh, eyeing the shining metal of a bullet that was too cruel to make a clean entrance and exit through the meat of his thigh. 

When he thinks he’s got a good enough chance of grabbing it, and really that means he’s _going_ to grab it, he does. Slips his thumb and pointer finger into the gash, ignores the way it feels to be pressing and moving muscle out of the way to pinch the bullet and pull it out. 

His hands don’t shake. They can’t. But every millimeter it takes is electric, stare so pinpointed, his vision is tunneling and going black around the edges and when he blinks, the world doesn’t come back for a few fleeting, dark moments and he has to readjust his focus when it does. 

It’s out though. After another few moments he’s lifted the bullet out and he discards it in favor of focusing on the wound now- the sound of metal hitting the cold porcelain of the tub and rolling away from him, leaving a small trail of blood as it goes. 

Nothing in comparison to all of that which is draining out of his leg though. Cascading over the curve of his thigh, rivulets running onto the bottom of the tub and soaking into his boxers. 

Has to clean the wound. 

Grabs the disinfectant with digits so thoroughly coated in blood that he suspects the undersides of his fingernails are going to be stained for quite some time. Smears the bottle with it and he decidedly does not wince as he douses the gash, apathetic to the sting and well now he has to stitch it up.

Scars mean nothing to him now. A jagged line running all along his scalp, what’s another one on his thigh?

He can picture what it will look like, as blood soaked hands begin to wrap gauze around his leg- just a bit of marred, uneven skin. It doesn’t matter. It hardly matters. It shouldn’t matter and yet, it shouldn’t even be there in the first place.

Something like this shouldn’t have happened.


End file.
